


Butterfly

by EliseEtcetera



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, this is my first Les Mis fic omg, woobie!R is so fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseEtcetera/pseuds/EliseEtcetera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is almost raped. Cue Les Amis swooping in to rescue him and assessing the damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly

In all honesty, he’s not quite sure how he got here. He’d left the Musain, well, staggered out, really, bottle in hand, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground and a fist was coming at his face. A kick to the gut and a blow to the jaw later, he was being dragged into an alley. The man above him wrenches a hand through his hair and forces him to stand, He then rips open Grantaire’s waistcoat and shirt and even through his drunken haze, Grantaire knows what this man wants.  
  
He might be drunk off his ass, but he can sure as hell still say no. The man tugging at his clothes must not have heard him, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because now he’s pulling Grantaire’s pants down and shoving him face first into the brick wall of the alley. Grantaire whimpers and wishes he hadn’t had so much to drink, because he can’t even fight off this filthy man, and everything is just so blurry.  
  
Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, tries to escape this, if only in his mind. He’s six years old again, sitting in the field behind his family’s home in the country, laughing as butterflies, the most beautiful butterflies, flutter around his head, nest in his dark curls. But the neighbor boys came, trapped the butterflies in their nets, and crushed the beautiful creatures under their shoes, and laughed when Grantaire started crying.  
  
And as the man behind him grips his hair and forces his head back, Grantaire is a butterfly, trapped in a net, about to be crushed.  
  
He bites his split, bleeding bottom lip and tries so hard to not cry as he feels the man behind him spread his ass cheeks and he knows what’s coming next. He’s scared, God, he is scared, and he just wants it to be over. He squeezes his eyes shut again, swallows blood and chokes back a sob as he feels the head of this disgusting man’s cock rub against his hole.  
  
But suddenly the hands clenched on his hips are gone, and his legs are crumpling, and he’s falling to the ground. He can hear punches being thrown, feet scuffling on the dirty Paris street and there are men screaming and yelling. A pair of arms hooks under his and another is pulling up his trousers. Someone strong scoops him up and now, he’s back in the Musain, people, men, his friends, all around him. He looks up and sees Bahorel and the panic on his face as the stronger man sets him down on his back on a table.  
  
Everyone around him is talking, yelling, and everything is too fast and too slow. Grantaire’s bleeding bottom lip begins to quiver and he knows he shouldn’t still be scared, but everyone is so loud and he still doesn’t know what’s going on. His friends are not the neighbor boys, but they’re just as loud. He brings his hands up to his chest and rolls onto his side, his legs coming in close to his body, and once he’s finally curled up into a ball, he lets himself cry.  
  
His sobs are quiet, but they’re enough to get the room to stop. Jehan is the first to break the silence, approaching the table holding a handkerchief to clean up the blood dripping from Grantaire’s split lip.  
  
‘It’s alright, ‘Taire,” he whispers, so soft and quiet, like a butterfly flapping its wings as it rested on Grantaire’s hand. He slowly swipes his thumb underneath Grantaire’s left eye, which is starting to swell, flicking away the tears there. “You’re safe now.”

Then Combeferre is crouching by his head, running his hand gently through his hair. He smiles softly at the sobbing man and says quietly, “I hate to ask you this, Grantaire, but…did he enter you?”  _Crushed beyond recognition._  
  
Grantaire somehow summons enough strength to shake his head. “N-no,” he whimpers and a fresh flood of tears runs from his eyes.  
  
Combeferre nods. “Are these your only injuries?” he asks, motioning to the wounds on Grantaire’s face.  _Ripped wings._  
  
“No, he k-kicked my s-stomach as well,” Grantaire says, his voice gaining strength.  _Broken legs._  
  
Combeferre nods again and moves to the other side of the table. He calls Joly over and tells Grantaire, “We need you on your back, so we can check for any serious injuries.”  
  
Grantaire nods and then hands are gently gripping his arms and shoulders, helping him turn. He wants nothing more than to fly away, to join the long forgotten friends he made that day, but Courfeyrac and Bossuet are both holding one of his hands and Jehan is still slowly stroking his face. Feuilly carefully lifts the injured man’s head and places a folded waistcoat under the black curls.   
  
Grantaire smiles weakly at the gesture and looks down at where Combeferre is examining his bared stomach. He watches as Combeferre bends at the waist and gently lays his head on Grantaire’s abdomen, listening closely.  
  
He's still shaking like a fucking leaf and his eyes flit around the room as he waits for Combeferre to finish. His teary blue eyes fall on Enjolras, who is standing on the other side of the room, looking thoroughly disturbed. His arms are wrapped tightly around his middle, his mouth slack and opened slightly, his eyes wide and watery, taking in the butterfly corpses around him. Grantaire is about to say something, call him over, when Combeferre straightens.  
  
“You’re fine, Grantaire, no internally bleeding as far as Joly and I can tell,” he says as he replaces Grantaire’s ripped shirt and waistcoat on his stomach. “You will have a nasty bruise, though.”  
  
Grantaire nods and squeezes Courfeyrac and Bossuet’s hands and clears his throat before whispering a “thank you”.   
  
Combeferre smiles warmly and softly pets Grantaire’s curls. “Of course,” he whispers and he’s about to continue when a firm voice comes from the other side of the room.  
  
“Everyone, get out.”  
  
Eight heads turn to face the leader and seven voices begin clamoring.  
  
“Enjolras, he…”  
  
“Leave? Why would…”  
  
“Are you mad? We can’t…”  
  
“…fucking  _raped_ , Enjolras!”  
  
“…at a time like this?”  
  
But Enjolras just ignores them, marching forward and pushing at his friends, herding them to the exit. “Get out, get out, get out,” he chants until everyone is gone and only he and Grantaire are left.  
  
The latter is still on the table, once again curled up, still crying. Enjolras’ heart aches at the sound and he fights the tears welling up in his eyes. He unbuttons his waistcoat, slips it off and folds it neatly before placing it on the table next to Grantaire’s head.  
  
Grantaire’s eyes are closed as he cries, not seeing what Enjolras is doing. His eyes pop open, however, when he hears the table creak and he sees Enjolras climbing onto it.

“What--“ Grantaire rasps, his tears stopping momentarily as he watches Enjolras lay next to him.  
  
The younger man rests his head on his folded waistcoat and pulls Grantaire close to him. He cups the bruised and bleeding face in his hands. He presses a light kiss to Grantaire’s forehead and whispers, “You’re safe now, ‘Taire.” Enjolras pulls backs slightly and two pairs of teary eyes meet.   
  
“No one is going to hurt you, ever again,” Enjolras swears, his voice soft but firm. “I  _will not_  let them.”   
  
Enjolras’ soft exhales fall on Grantaire’s lips like soft wings, gold and jade and indigo and crimson and the dark haired man finds himself closing the almost non-existent distance between their mouths. It’s the most delicate kiss, as fragile as a butterfly and it’s gone just as quickly.  
  
Grantaire closes his eyes and two small tears roll down his cheeks. He rests his head on Enjolras’ chest, and the blond man lets him cry and sob and cling to his shirt.  
  
He’s not sure how he got here, but Enjolras holds him close and kisses his hair and hums soft lullabies that sound like the ones Grantaire’s mother hummed years ago on that afternoon, and this is how they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheeeeeee~
> 
> Original thread: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3233327#t3233327


End file.
